


Going On a Bear Hunt

by MimiLaRue



Series: We're Not Scared [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Post Season 5, SEASON FIVE DEMONS BE GONE!, angst then fluff, flipped POV, still not sorry about making shit up about Linda and Mickey's arrangement with the Kash and Grab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 11:56:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5204969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiLaRue/pseuds/MimiLaRue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mickey Milkovich tries really freaking hard to get over Ian Gallagher and almost mostly sort of succeeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going On a Bear Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This is a B-side fic from Mickey's pov, meant to be read after ["Can't Go Over It, Can't Go Under It, Can't Go Around It, Got To Go Through It" ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758704). But you do you. I'm not the boss of you.
> 
> And SO! MANY! THANKS! go to [Querulous Gawks](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Querulousgawks/works) who is so generous with her beta-ing time and is generally a lovely smartypants of a person.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since Ian broken up with him -- freaking napalmed his way out of their relationship. Mickey hadn’t seen him since - twenty-two days of purposefully avoiding the Gallagher house and pretty much anything in a three-block radius of it. Because when the war is over, who wants to visit the burnt-out remains?

He stared in the mirror and ran a shaky hand through his hair one more time. He looked this way and that, evaluating. Maybe stalling. 

No, fuck it. Fuck tears and laying around and pounding beers til everything was out of focus. 

Mickey took one last look. Forced himself to think about anonymous hands on his body, the smell of a new guy all around him, skin on skin, hard on hard. He palmed himself through his jeans and headed out before he could change his mind. 

Tonight, Mickey Milkovich was going to get laid.

He’d passed by the bar last week when he casually, unnecessarily, cut through Boystown on an errand. _Rusty’s_. Reminded him of the Alibi, minus Veronica’s tits hanging out all over the place. Fuck those clubs _he_ used to work at. Mickey was pretty sure he’d developed an allergy to glitter and techno anyways. What he had liked was not worrying if he was going to get his ass kicked for checking someone out. The ease of just fucking _looking_. So a bar in Boystown - just a plain old bar without the queeny drama - seemed perfect. A place where Mickey might grab a drink, get some dick. Multitask.

So here he was, leaning at this tall-ass table, draining his third beer, watching and trying not to look like he was watching. Not out of fear - just because, shit, still gotta look cool. There were a few prospects. None that tall, none that built, but Mickey wasn’t choosy. Willing and able were pretty much his only criteria at this point. He was just happy not to be cruising at the park. This seemed a little more… civilized. 

Finally, a guy by the pool table snagged Mickey with a look. His eyebrow lifted almost unnoticeably, and Mickey wondered what he was supposed to do back. For a hysterical moment he considered tugging his ear and wiping his forehead like he was calling first base, but in the end he just raised an eyebrow in return. Almost immediately the guy turned and headed down a dark hall at the back of the bar, and while Mickey didn’t know where it led, he knew what was going to happen at the end of it.

  


It was fine. It wasn’t great, but it would do. Bar was set too fucking high. He walked home, shaking off thoughts as soon as they landed. 

***

Rusty’s (The Gay Alibi, how he thought of it now) became Mickey’s regular spot to find a warm body. He hooked up with guys of varying levels of hotness, with varying levels of success. He got better at reading the signals, giving the signals (though he still sometimes had the crazy urge to tap his nose, brush his shoulder, point to second…). But what mattered was that Mickey was getting some consistently. Maybe these guys were just scratching an itch, but at least it was _getting_ fucking scratched.

Then he met Sam. Sam reminded him of -- well, Sam was good looking was all. And nice. And had been early the one other time they met up for a drink at the nice midtown bar Sam picked that was _not_ like the Alibi or the Gay Alibi. Early and smiling, all open like it was the easiest thing in the world to do. (What is it with him and nice guys? Shouldn’t he be more comfortable with assholes the way Mandy was?) Mickey sighed as he pulled open the door to Rusty’s. Sam was already at a tall table near the wall, waiting for him. He smiled his giant smile and waved. Mickey smiled back in spite of himself. God save him from the fucking dorks.

Mickey drank fast, downing two beers for every one of Sam’s. The guy kept trying to talk to him about normal-people stuff -- what he liked to do for fun, what books he’s read, what movies he’s seen recently. And Mickey -- Mickey had fuck all to say in response. He took another swallow and came up with another noncommittal answer. He knew that Sam was curious about him, wanted to fuck somewhere other than a bar bathroom, maybe go back to Mickey’s house. But he didn’t need any judgement or pity or wide eyes taking in an empty, messy house that still had a few baby toys and empty suitcases lying around. But then Sam laughed at one of his own jokes. Sam was cute. Maybe Sam would be cool if Mickey let him come over. 

“Can I get you guys anything?” Mickey looked upset the server to order another. 

_Sucker punch._

Red hair ( _upper-cut to the jaw_ ). Freckles ( _one-two to the chest_ ). Green eyes ( _haymaker, right in the gut_ ). Ian. Here. 

Ian was here, _now_. 

Mickey wanted a helicopter to swing by and airlift him out of there. He wanted a hundred comets to hit the Gay Alibi all at once. He wanted to run around the bar and scream at everyone, “ _Are you fucking seeing this?!_ ” Most of all he wanted to reach up and touch Ian’s face. Push the lock of hair out of his eyes.

Ian made small talk with Sam like they were all old pals. Like they were characters on a sitcom and this was fucking Central Perk or something. But when Sam asked how Ian and Mickey knew each other, Mickey decided he was going to shut this down. He would say: “We don’t.” Or maybe: “Ian used to date my sister.” Something that would smother this conversation like the dumpster fire it was. But when he looked up to speak, Ian busted out that smirk. And while Mickey was distracted by wanting to eat it off of Ian’s face, Ian said,

“We were in Little League together.” 

_Motherfucking knock-out._

Fucking little league. The dugouts. The _dugouts_. Mickey wanted to cry because the last time they were there, things were good. Things got fucking bloody and hot and things were good for a minute and they were going to go on a date and -- 

“How do you guys know each other?” Ian seemed to direct the question at Sam, but he kept looking at Mickey. 

Mickey forced himself to stare Ian down and actually speak. “We hang out.” 

Mickey really fucking hoped that Ian got it and that it hurt, to see Mickey with someone else, moving on. But Ian just smiled at Mickey like his answer was cute and turned back to Sam. 

Mickey’s mind was still in the dugouts -- the way their breath had fogged between kisses, the way Ian’s hair felt under his hand, and the million other details he’d forgotten but were now coming at him in technicolor, surround-sound, 3D -- when, under the table, Ian’s foot nudged his. Then slid against it. And he shouldn’t have been able to feel _Ian_ through layers of rubber and leather and cloth, but he did. 

Mickey gave Sam some bullshit excuse and practically ran outside. He felt a little bad, but only like a drop of bad in an ocean of _Ian Ian Ian fucking now Ian_. Didn’t care if it made him weak. Ain't too proud to beg.

Ian tried to kiss him when they got outside, but that was a hard limit. Too painful. Too much like it used to be. This was just scratching an itch. 

***

Mickey lay in his bed, hand down his boxers, trying to get something going. He had tried slow, he’d tried fast. He’d smoked weed. He’d played music. He was more than in the mood. Shit, he'd been in the mood since that night at Rusty’s a few weeks before, but tonight - nothing. His dick and his ass knew that his hands were not the real thing. There was no faking it tonight - only the real thing would do. 

_Shit._ This was going to be a low point, he could tell. He washed his hands, buckled up his pants, shoved a condom and some lube in his pocked and didn’t even bother grabbing his wallet. He knew he wasn’t buying a drink. He stalked out the door and made the corner to Rusty’s.

Inside, he caught Ian’s eye almost instantly and didn’t even break stride, cutting through the bar and down the back hallway. Mickey pushed the broken exit door open so hard it slammed back and almost hit Ian, right behind him. 

In the alley, Ian took the condom from Mickey, rolled it on and pushed in, all without pause. When Ian's quiet sounds hit the nape of Mickey's neck, heat flashed up Mickey’s back, and his brain short-circuited with the fullness of Ian, with Ian’s sounds, Ian's smell. 

When they were done, Mickey walked away as quickly as he could without actually running. He made sure to turn so Ian couldn’t see his tears. 

_Itch scratched. Itch fucking scratched, scraped, ripped open, bleeding. Real A+ decision making, Mick._

***

Mickey carried Yev and fumbled with all the baby stuff ( _Jesus, so much stuff_ ) and left the warmth of the clinic. Outside on the chilly sidewalk, he stared down at the whimpering, sniffling baby in his arms and wondered what to do with him. Supposedly Svet was at some appointment, but Mickey was pretty sure she just couldn’t handle the little dude getting his shots. That was fine. Mickey was the tough one, that was his role. He leaned in and zipped up Yev’s wooly little jacket.

A playground at the end of the block looked promising. Maybe some fresh air and fun might help (though what the fuck did a ten-month-old think was fun?).

The park had those baby swings that kids seemed to like. Yev didn’t really sit in it so much as end up completely vertical, legs dangling straight down. 

Mickey grinned at Yev’s concerned-then-unsure-then-delighted expression. He pushed a little harder and then laughed as Yev’s expression dialed back to concerned. “Okay then, we’ll take it easy, dude,” he said, slowing the swing.

Mickey surprised at how easy this was. Just pushing. Just being here. Most days Svetlana asked him to watch Yev, he was at a loss as to what to do with the kid and usually he ended up propping him up on the couch next to him while they watched TV. But this was a task. This he could do. Mickey felt his face heating up, which was fucking stupid, to get all embarrassed and proud about not sucking as a dad. 

Right then, looking at his son was too much. Dug up too many dusty feelings from down in the basement. 

Still pushing gently, he looked around the park instead. A faded green ice cream truck sat at the end of the parking lot. Selling ice cream in early April, huh? Mickey wished the guy luck. The day might have been warm earlier, but now that the sun was heading down, the temp was dropping fast. Mickey would bet he’d be able to see his breath in the next hour. He pushed Yev in a mindless rhythm, trying to remember if he packed a hat for the kid. Out in the parking lot, some dipshit in a tank top and shorts was talking to the ice cream guy, leaning far into the ice cream truck window. The ice cream guy leaned back to preserve some personal space. 

Then Mickey clocked the red hair. The height. The emphatic hand gestures and wild laughter. The frantic way the dude was practically punching his words at this ice cream guy. 

Fuck. He really didn’t need to see Ian manic and not taking care of himself today. He didn’t ever need to see it. 

Mickey stomped down the bubble of need to run over and give Ian his jacket, to make sure he got home OK. ( _At least two miles from home - you gonna walk home in the cold, G? Fine. Fucking fine._ )

He scooped Yevgeny out of the swing before his willpower broke or before Ian saw him. 

_Not my problem. Not my problem. Not my goddamned fucking problem._

***

Mickey didn’t go to Rusty’s anymore. But he found other bars, other guys. 

***

When Svetlana asked Mickey to bring Yevgeny to Kevin and V’s, the first thing Mickey did was try and figure out if there was any possible way to approach the Ball house without seeing the Gallagher house. Some secret tunnel system maybe. But when she called him a pussy in Russian (he’d absolutely learned that word over the last few months), he grumbled out a lackluster “Fine bitch, get off my jock” and set off with the kid.

It was just a street. Just a house. Just a guy. Shit, Ian probably wouldn’t even be there. Mickey watched the sidewalk as he turned onto Wallace. He counted the squares of concrete as he walked and tried to guess how many more before he had to cross to get to Kev and V’s. In between 42 and 43 he heard

“Hey Mick.”

Because of course Ian was sitting out on the stoop. Of fucking _course_ he was. 

Ian looked tired. Good - _he always looked good, the asshole_ \- but tired. Wilted. A low part of the cycle then, maybe. Shit. Mickey let the concern flow through his mind, forcing it not to stick. 

After a minute of bullshit small talk, Mickey realized Ian hadn’t seen Yev’s latest party trick - walking. It was stupid and shameful how excited he was to show Ian, so he focused extra hard on Yev. The kid had never done this outside, so Mickey made sure they were on level sidewalk and Yev had an extra-firm grip on his thumbs before Mickey started guiding him. Yev marched along like a pro, and Mickey laughed when the kid did a perfect Svetlana impression, babbling at him and Ian like he was the boss of everybody.

He remembered when they all lived together -- Ian, him, Svetlana, Nika -- like some bizarro, Southside Brady Bunch. Yev had been this little squatter that none of them had expected, but he’d had a lot of people who cared for him, took care of him. Mickey glanced up at Ian. His ex might not be one of them anymore, but miraculously, Mickey stood upright.

***

Mickey rolled his shoulders as he let the security gate clatter shut over the Kash and Grab’s back alley door. Long fucking day. Thank god for his weird-ass arrangement with Linda to do off-hours shopping at the store. He picked up the diapers and milk, turned to go -- and nearly ran into a six-foot Viking on fire. Face red, chest heaving, eyes wild. _Ian._

“Jesus H Christ, Gallagher! What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Me? What the fuck are you doing here?” Only Ian would have the balls to run up on him like a bat out of hell and then demand answers. But Mickey told him about his arrangement with Linda (because apparently he will always have zero chill when it comes to Ian). 

Ian settled. His breathing slowed down, he stopped pacing. Mickey watched him, forcing himself to detach the part of his brain that was screaming _hurt! betrayal! love!_ and push it far in the back. If the Southside had gotten so small that he couldn’t escape Ian Gallagher even in a dirty, deserted alley, he had had better learn to cope. He took a long pull on his cigarette. “So, what the fuck _are_ you doing here?”

In response, Ian giggled, then laughed, like a maniac. And then he just melted the fuck down -- sobbing as he slid down the wall and sat on his heels. _Well, shit._ Mickey didn’t know what he expected in response, but it wasn’t this. This was like one of those nature shows where the flower blooms really fast and then wilts just as quick, fascinating but disturbing. Mickey watched, alarmed, and then he pushed the alarm back in that far corner of his brain too. 

Realizing with a sigh that he wasn’t going anywhere, Mickey pulled up a milk crate and lit a cigarette. He watched Ian and almost wanted to give the guy a hug. Not because he was feeling needy, it just seemed like Ian could use a friend. But Mickey’s concern was at arm’s length. Ian took care of Ian. Those were the rules now.

Mickey did feel enough sympathy to pass over his cigarette. He wasn't a monster. 

Mickey watched Ian take drag after drag. He rolled his eyes -- guy always was a selfish little shit with a smoke. 

“You gonna bogart that cigarette, man? It’s my last one.”

Ian snorted and passed it over. Mickey had just taken a very necessary inhale, when Ian decided to go straight for the nuclear option.

“Should I go back on my meds, Mick?”

 _Jesus. We’re doing this now?_ Mickey coughed out his smoke. Ian _would_ put him on the spot like this; he would just swing the door open to all the private, hurtful shit that Mickey had been trying to put away for months. But then Mickey took in the confusion and sadness in Ian’s eyes, the tears on his lashes, and tried to be decent.

“Shit, man. I don’t know,” he sighed, trying for patience. A smaller, petty part of him grumbled under his breath, “I’m not your fucking keeper.” 

But then, since Ian had pushed that door wide open anyways, Mickey found himself talking. He told Ian about the research he'd done when they were still together, about getting the right cocktail and about how being bipolar isn’t a death sentence. He sounded like a fucking social worker and he was _not supposed to care_ because Ian made that perfectly fucking clear when they broke up. 

Mickey stubbed out his cigarette and picked up his stuff. “I don't know, man. Do whatever the fuck you want to do,” he muttered. He’d given Ian advice, he’d been a shoulder to cry on. It was all he could do without throwing himself on a landmine.

***

It seemed like there were never enough opportunities for a decent fight anymore. So when Iggy asked for his help in getting paid by a “delinquent customer” - like Iggy had sent the guy an invoice or some shit - Mickey had practically jumped off the couch, fists up.

Iggy's guy got in a few hits, but Mickey landed more. His arms ached and his fists stung, and the thrill of a good fight coursed through his veins like jet fuel - all of which meant he was in a great fucking mood when Ian walked by. Mickey knew he was covered in blood like a horror movie. (Head cuts, even tiny ones, bled like a bitch.) He must have looked like such a thug, but he shot Ian a smile anyways. Since the impromptu therapy session at the Kash & Grab, Mickey had made progress. Seeing Ian was less of a gut-punch, more of a light slap. _Look at me. Fucking growing and shit._

Ian on the other hand looked… out of it. He blinked at Mickey at couple of times, said hi weakly, and made the corner in the general direction of the Gallagher house. Mickey frowned. It was late at night, and while no one was likely going to mess with a six foot tall bundle of muscles like Ian Gallagher, the guy didn’t look like he was 100% with it right now. You never knew what kind of trouble you could run into in the middle of the night on the Southside (and the irony of the observation didn’t escape Mickey, as he wiped a trickle of blood from his brow), even if you were alert and aware.

“Hey, you got this, Ig?” Mickey thrust the half-conscious dude towards his brother, not bothering to look see if Iggy did, in fact, get it. He vaguely heard his brother say something behind him, but he was already half-jogging after Ian.

 _Not following him. Not in charge of him. Just…_ Just what, exactly? Just being a boy scout, secretly escorting his physically capable ex-boyfriend home. He snorted. _More like just being a stalker._

He hung back on the corner of Wallace and 48th, just out of reach of the streetlight, and watched Ian trudge up the steps to his house. Once the door closed, Mickey turned and headed back to his empty house. 

He was not supposed to care, but fuck it, he did. He did care about Ian Gallagher, and apparently that was always going to be a stupid, permanent condition. Oh well. If caring for Ian was a character flaw, it would be one of his lesser ones, he supposed. 

***

Mickey leaned back against the cracked vinyl. Even though this booth at the Alibi smelled like a thousand farts, it was still better than his couch at home. He told himself he came out to drink only because he was flush from helping Iggy get paid but ignored the real reason just underneath: he didn’t want to be at home. For the first time in a while, Mickey had the tiniest ember of a good mood going. Being in the house would smother it. Always too dark and quiet there these days. No matter how many windows were open, no matter how loud the TV was, the empty house was a megaphone - it amplified whatever sad, sappy shit was rattling around in his head. Tonight the Alibi was muffling all of that. Gave that ember a chance to burn. He snorted into his beer. _Fucking poetic, Mick._ Clearly not drunk enough.

He got up to grab a shot from Kev, when he noticed Frank in the middle of a drunken tantrum, aimed at a tired-looking Lip. 

“Of course I should get a bed! That’s my fucking house. You’re not even there! And Ian--”

Lip cut him off before Frank could get a full head of steam. “Frank, calm the fuck down. It’s not happening. You lost dibs on a bed years ago.” 

(In Mickey’s head, rattling: _And Ian what? And Ian what? And Ian what?_ So his head was going to do that no matter what. Cool.)

Frank exploded with a belligerent “Bullshit!” and knocked over a stool. 

Kev switched immediately from amused to authoritative. “Night night, Frank. You ain't gotta go home, but you can't stay here.”

Frank glared and grumbled his way out the door. It would have been comfortingly familiar if it wasn’t such Ian-adjacent, land-mine-riddled territory.

Lip went to pick up the stool and caught Mickey watching. "Jesus,” he groaned. “My night just keeps getting better." 

"I didn't even say anything, man." Mickey turned back to his drink and took a big gulp. If his mouth was full for a few swallows it would give him time to beat back the questions in his head ( _And Ian_ what _?_ ).

But then Lip solved/ruined everything when he grabbed his drink and slid in the booth opposite Mickey’s seat. "What's good, Milkovich?" 

"We friends now?" Mickey sat back down. Damn, he really should've gotten that shot.

"Nah. I still think you're a piece of shit." Lip shrugged, stared into his beer. "Guess I’m just realizing these days that I'm a piece of shit too." Mickey couldn’t argue with that. 

"Really taking those psych 101 classes to heart, huh, Joe College?"

"Yeah, whatever." They sat there, both in staring contests with their beers because apparently two pieces of shit could not actually look each other in the eyes. It's part of what defined them as pieces of shit probably. "How's Mandy?" Lip asked. 

"Good." Mickey hovered on a precipice… then toppled over. "How's Ian?"

"Good." They flicked their eyes up at each other. "Really. Well, on the road to good at least."

"Yeah?" Mickey said to his pint glass.

"Yeah," Lip said to his. "You should--" he started. "You--" he started again.

Mickey looked up at him, piece of shit or not. 

"You were good for him. He's doing ok, but you were good for him." 

“Yeah. Well.” Mickey’s skin suddenly fit all wrong. Caring about the guy and being reminded about their stupid star-crossed teenage romance were two different things. Mickey wished Lip would shut the fuck up.

Lip says something else under his breath.

"What the fuck did you say?" (When your skin fit wrong, anger helped with the resizing.)

"Nothing man." Lip stood up. "Now I'm going to sprout wings and shit a pile of golden coins because apparently this is a night for stupid weird shit to happen."

"Yeah whatever, dipshit." 

Lip just sighed. "Sounds about right." He drained his beer. "Later Mickey. Tell Mandy I said hey if you talk to her."

Mickey just grunted instead of saying "Go fuck yourself" like he meant to, because he was thinking about that mumble that he didn't quite catch. He was turning it over and over. Examining it. Because what it sounded like was: "He misses you."

***

Running around after a newly-mobile Yevgeny was fucking exhausting. Every time Mickey thought they were cool, Yev was picking up something from the ground (OK, yes that was a shell casing _one time_ ) or trying to climb up and then tumble down the stairs. Who had time for even a pop tart with a Tasmanian devil like that on the loose?

So as soon as he’d dropped the kid off, Mickey booked it to the closest grease and salt. 

And because life is an asshole, Ian was at the same pizza place. After months of nothing, they practically walk into each other, Ian is so at the same pizza place. 

“Hey. Uh, you getting a slice?” Mickey leaned back in the doorway and glances around. _Could just leave, make up some excuse. Get pizza somewhere else. Like Milwaukee._

“Was thinking about it. You?” 

“Yeah, just dropped the kid off with Svet and got hungry. Kinda forget to eat when I’m running around after him.” 

“You watched him for the morning?” Ian said, and he looked proud of him or something. 

Mickey kicked at a crack in the side walk. “Nah, I kept him overnight. First time, too.” _So you watched a baby for 14 hours. So dumb. Stop smiling like a lunatic, Milkovich._

“That’s a big deal!” Ian said. 

“Yeah, well.” Mickey tried to press back his smile. “So…” 

“So. Pizza.” Mickey and Ian nodded at each other like two pigeons. _Jesus, we are idiots._

“I mean… we could just both go in, and, you know, eat some pizza.”

“Yeah, we could do that.” _Could we though?_ Mickey wasn’t really in the mood for the usual torture that came with being around Ian. It had gotten easi _er_ to be around him, but it wasn’t easy. He still got angry at Ian he still wanted him. But maybe this was a good chance to work on it. Like a new ability that he needed to practice; Superman figuring out how to fly for the first time. Maybe he could control the anger and the want enough to be around the guy.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian laughed impatiently, breaking Mickey's train of thought. “Get the fuck in there, and eat some fucking pizza at the same table as me. It’s not going to fucking kill us.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” It was as good a time as any to test his new Ian Gallagher-doesn’t-get-to-me superpower.

Ian pulled the door open and pushed him towards the counter. Mickey made sure tamp down the thrill of Ian’s rowdy hands on him, immediately snuffed out the urge to push back, to wrestle and play. _Superpower 1, out-of-control emotion, 0_.

  
 

Mickey's superpower seemed to be malfunctioning.

In the fifteen minutes that it took to get their pizza and eat it, Ian had bought him lunch, _absofuckinglutely_ flirted with him, and completely invaded his personal space. 

And now, as Ian took his last bite of pizza and leaned back in his chair, he grinned at Mickey like he was going to eat him for dessert. 

Mickey gripped the sides of his chair so he didn’t leap across the table and wipe the sauce off of Ian’s chin. With his mouth. So no. Not as in control as he thought.

“I guess we finally went on that date, huh Mick?” Ian said, so obviously pleased with himself and the world. 

_Oh good, and now we’re making jokes about that one hilarious time we almost went on a date but he was hauled away by MPs._

Ian’s joke knocked Mickey completely off balance, like the conversation was suddenly one of those fun-houses with uneven floors and wacky mirrors. What the fuck even was this? Was this what exes did -- took painful shit and turned it into inside jokes? Mickey would have killed for a “Translating Your Hot-As-Fuck Ex-Boyfriend’s Flirty-Possibly-Manic Vibe For Dummies” book. The worst part was, he was completely charmed by it all. Ian Gallagher’s smile was his kryptonite.

But all he could do was just try hard not to blush. “No, we most certainly did not finally go on that date. This is not a date, motherfucker. And this is definitely not _that_ date. Fuck no,” he looked around and laughed. “This place ain’t Sizzlers." Ian just grinned at him, and Mickey gripped the chair harder.

***

When Ian sauntered up to Mickey’s makeshift shooting range under the L, Mickey wasn’t even surprised. Apparently he was destined to run into Ian until the end of time. 

But at least Ian had gone from a torture he thought would kill him to a torture that he could compartmentalize. Mickey realized he could turn it on and off like a spigot now - decide how much to let himself want, crave, pine. Now, with Ian walking towards him he let himself open the spigot, just a little.

First and foremost: _Is Ian always going to look this good? Because this shit is honestly ridiculous._ Dude was all shoulders and abs and arms and ass coming right for him. And then you matched all those fucking muscles with a goofy smile and face that you never didn't want to look at. It was just one of the many ways that life had proven to be unfair. 

Mickey sighed, resigned to his lot in life.

Thank god for the gun and the target. Even if he could keep the torture-by-freckles under control, focusing on the gun meant that Mickey could sound laid-back when he said, “Free country. Just sit back and out of the way.” 

Mickey let the soothingly familiar rhythm of cock, shoot, retort wash over him and for a few minutes, they existed in easy silence. But the next time Mickey stopped to reload, Ian walked up. “Let me try.”

Mickey fell back into caretaker mode instantly and did a quick assessment. Eyes bright - but too bright? Like, wild and crazy and run-around-firing-a-gun manic? Or was he--

Ian’s eyes searched Mickey’s face and read him just as well as he ever had. "I started taking my meds a few months ago. I'm pretty stable these days." Ian blushed hard as soon as he spoke. 

Mickey blinked. _Ian was on his meds_. No, that wasn’t it. _Ian wants to take care of himself_ \-- that was the miracle. It shouldn’t have made Mickey want to do cheesy stuff like crow and whoop and holler, but it did. 

“Good for you.” He tried to stop smiling - but nothing doing. Ian took care of Ian now. New rules. _Good_ rules. 

Mickey handed him the gun and settled back. Ian turned it over in his hands. “Glock, huh?” 

“When you care enough to send the very best.” _Jesus, Mick. Very impressive banter._ Mickey didn’t even know why he said it, other than he felt giddy. They were hanging out, on purpose. Ian was taking his meds. Things were different today.

“Call it,” Ian said over his shoulder, body long and tense. _Ian and a gun. Fucking gorgeous._ Mickey opened his mouth to say, “Head.”

But what came out was: “How does it feel, on the meds?”

 _Where the fuck did that come from?_ All he wanted to do is watch the beautiful show in front of him, and his brain was hijacking it with _questions_. 

But then again, maybe he was due. Maybe Mickey got to ask questions because that's what you earned when shit got messy and off-balance and you kept finding each other anyways. 

"Not bad, I guess. Left shoulder.” Ian called the shot himself, and then missed it completely. 

_Shit._ Mickey waited for Ian to groan or drop the gun - get frustrated with what he couldn’t do anymore. But Ian just readjusted his stance, took aim again, and called, “Right shoulder.” 

_Come on, Gallagher._ Ian landed the shot. Barely. He just squared up again.

“Left leg.” Ian blasted the target right where he wanted, and Mickey watched him stand straighter, lift his chin an inch. 

Ian told him about his new job at the coffee place. What Mickey heard was: _I’m stable, I’m taking care of myself_. 

"Right leg." Ian was just calling all the shots himself now ( _asshole always did_ ). This time, Ian missed the target again. Mickey watched him closely, but if anything, Ian seemed more determined. It was the same stubborn persistence that used to keep Ian studying geometry for hours, that kept him chasing Mickey no matter how many times Mickey held him at arm's length. Mickey nearly cheered with relief at seeing it again. 

"Last shot. Call it, Mickey."

_Last shot. Call it. Last shot. Last shot. Last motherfucking shot._

_So what are you going to do about it, Mick?_

_Call it._

“Heart.” Mickey wondered if Ian would get the joke. He wasn’t even sure what the joke was, but it was an inside joke about a painful thing. Mickey heard Ian laugh right before he pulled the trigger.

_Bulls-eye. Not too shabby, G._

Ian turned and handed the gun to Mickey. His face was flushed pink and he smiled at Mickey like he didn’t know how to stop. “Thanks. That was fun.” Ian smiled and bit his lower lip. He practically pulsed with energy, and Mickey felt it all aimed right at him. 

_Yeah, Gallagher? We doing this?_ Because if there was one thing he knew, it was an Ian Gallagher charm offensive. And, shit, if Ian could do it, so could he. He pulled out a little of the old Mickey Milkovich, the one who never gave a fuck and knew it drove Ian crazy. He looked at Ian dead on and took a lazy drag on his cigarette. “Anytime.” 

Ian’s swallowed hard, and it was all Mickey could do not grin at his fluster. But that would ruin the badass effect, so he just turned to go, end the day on a high note. But after only a step, he heard Ian say, “Hey Mick, you wanna go on that date sometime?”

Mickey turned and froze. “A date? You and me, on a date?” Because maybe he had just wanted to hear it so badly that he made it up.

“We never did before,” Ian said, cupping his hand at his neck and watching Mickey with soft eyes. “It could be fun.” 

But still - “Why?”

"Because I want to do things in my life that I know make me happy. Because I messed up. Because I fucking missed you."

At once, the conversation was too much. It was riding a bike down a strange hill in the dark – completely exhilarating and terrifying. Mickey needed to downshift the only way he knew how.

“Yeah, but did you miss fucking me?” 

Ian sputtered and stammered. _Fucking adorable_. “Did I--? Oh my fucking God! Are you even kidding me right now?” 

Mickey laughed. “Calm your tits, Ian. Yeah I’ll go on a date with you.” And then Ian was fucking beaming at him and they were going to go on date and everything was perfect.

“How about tonight?” Ian asked, and things got even better. _Ian tonight, Ian tonight, Ian_ tonight. 

"Tonight, huh? You should play this shit more cool, Gallagher. No one likes an eager beaver." 

"I guess I just know what I want, and I don't want to wait even one more day for it," Ian said, and Mickey nearly swooned. "Plus, Mick, I'm pretty sure neither of us would like any kind of beaver, eager or not." 

Mickey snorted in spite of himself. "Oh my god, no. Just fucking no, Ian.” _You never were as funny as me, asshole_. “We wouldn't like any kind of beaver." Mickey laughed at Ian laughing at him. 

"Good thing you're hot as shit." _And he was. He really, really was_. Mickey made a fist at his side so he didn't reach for him. 

"But since I've got a pretty face and an ass like carved marble, we are?"

"Yeah. We are," Mickey laughed. He needed to go before his last sliver of control disappeared. "You can pick me up at eight."

Ian's face fell. “Except that I’d start falling asleep about 45 minutes into our date.” Mickey wished they were in a place where he could tell Ian that he’d go on a date with him at 6 a.m. if that’s what worked for Ian. He'd meet him at made-up times like half-past a freckle or 29 o’clock. 

But they weren’t there. Yet. So Mickey just tried to play it cool. “Alright. How bout five o’clock?”

A slow, dumb smile spread on Ian’s face. “But that’s in an hour.”

“If you turn into a pumpkin at nine, then we should start early, don’t you think?” Because, Mickey swore to God, if they didn’t end up in bed tonight, he was going to howl from the sheer injustice of it all. Four hours had better be enough time. 

Mickey walked away and hoped Ian couldn’t tell how reluctantly he was doing it. Or maybe he did. All he knew was that he was going on a date, was going to have a legitimate, non-fucked-up, good time with Ian Gallagher. Mickey felt like he must be glowing.

“You should wear that dark blue button down,” Ian called out from behind him. “Makes your eyes look nice."

Mickey just looked back and Ian and laughed. He hoped the shadows from the L hid his blush. 

“I’m gonna kiss the shit out of you later Mickey Milkovich!” Ian yelled across the grass. Mickey shot him the bird out of pure reflex before he even processed what Ian had said, how he'd said it - like pure joy just bursting out of him. 

_Fucking Ian, man. “I'm gonna kiss the shit out of you later!”?_

It made Mickey want to laugh and cry. It made him want to turn around and grab Ian and not wait til five o'clock.

So he did. 

Mickey spun and ran after Ian. He flew past land mines, turned on the want full blast. 

“Mickey, what the fuck? What --”

He hauled Ian down by his t-shirt, and surged up, mouth already open -- for air, for a kiss he’d waited months ( _years, my whole life_ ) for, for a tongue that was already sliding in, soft and sweet. Ian’s arms slid around Mickey automatically, like they’d just been waiting to do it. 

He had barely tasted Ian ( _so good, Jesus was it always this fucking good?_ ), but he backed away. 

“Wha?” Ian breathed, dazed. 

“Maybe we should make it 4:30.” Mickey bit his lip, tasting the little bit of Ian that was left there. Ian looked so cute standing there, eyes all green and wide, that he reached up and stole one more kiss - and then he turned and ran for home. This time Mickey didn’t hold back. He crowed and hollered and whooped and didn't care if the whole city of Chicago could hear him.

**Author's Note:**

> [Hi there! *waves* ](http://mimilaroo.tumblr.com/)


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